


Contending For The Wild Olive

by let_tyrants_fear



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, i just really love jack murdock okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 03:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let_tyrants_fear/pseuds/let_tyrants_fear
Summary: In the months leading up to his death, Jack contemplates winning, losing, and the fights he doesn't want his son to see.





	Contending For The Wild Olive

If someone sat down and made a tally of his life - his triumphs, his losses, his sins - Jack was pretty sure he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again. It was bad enough they made a record of his time in the ring, but Jack didn’t need the reminder of all the ways he’d failed as a man as well as a boxer. He tried to avoid thinking about it too much, ‘cause he knew if he did he’d never be able to look his son in the eye again, but now...

Hell, this wasn’t even his loss. Matty was the one who couldn’t see anymore. But whatever hurt Matty hurt Jack, too, and this had definitely knocked their little family down hard.

 

Jack’s mind was working over time, struggling to connect all the dots. There was Roscoe, who paid him to lose, who threatened Matty to get Jack to agree. There were all Jack’s sins, stacking up against him. And now there was this. Matty’s accident. His son, lying in a hospital bed with bandages wrapped ‘round his eyes. Hurt, despite Jack’s best efforts. 

 

Jack’s relationship with God was rocky at the best of times - he took Matty to church on Sundays, but they never lingered. Jack knew God couldn’t be very impressed by him, a broken man who broke others, and who could blame Him? Still he had never bought into the idea of a vengeful and malicious God. 

 

What was he supposed to think now, though? This whole shitshow seemed to be God’s way of warning him to get back on the straight and narrow. He’d only gotten involved with Roscoe in the first place to keep Matty safe, but here was Matt, hurt anyway. The message was loud and clear: If Roscoe didn’t hurt Matt, He would. 

 

Christ, but it wasn’t that simple! Maggie used to say that whenever God closed a door, somewhere He opened a window. But Jack was locked in an airless basement and the only way out had been bricked over long ago. Still, if there was a way out...

 

The fluorescent lights and sterile white walls were about as far from the dark, smoky interior of a church as Jack could imagine. The hospital had a chapel, but it was filled with fake flowers and plastic chairs. It made Jack feel like his prayers were pretend. Besides, he’d always felt God’s presence most next to what Jack considered to be His greatest gift. 

 

Feeling the words of the familiar prayer heavy on his tongue, Jack knelt by Matt’s bedside to pray.  _ Our Father, who art in Heaven _ …

 

-

 

Matt was discharged from the hospital a few days laters. The doctors sent him home with a prescription for pain medication and a cane; they sent Jack home with a pile of bills. 

 

Walking into their apartment, Jack flipped the light switch on in the kitchen, sending light flooding across the room. Matt didn’t even blink, and Jack flinched violently when he remembered why. 

 

“Okay, kid,” he said. “First night back at home, what do you want for dinner?”

 

Matty stared blankly at him for two beats of his heart and shrugged. Jack’s shoulders fell just a fraction of an inch lower. “C’mon, Matt,” he tried, and he hated how much it sounded like he was whining. He was the adult here. 

 

“What’s it matter?” Matt finally said. He shuffled forward slowly, flinching at every scuff of his shoes on the linoleum. When he finally made it to the table, he groped for a chair and clumsily sat down. He folded his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead. 

 

It was so different from the scenes that normally played out over their scrubbed and scratched kitchen table that for a moment all Jack could do was gape at his son. Then he snapped his mouth shut and swung himself into the chair across from Matt. 

 

“I guess it doesn’t,” he admitted. “Just wanted to do something nice for you.”

 

A dark look crossed Matt’s face, and Jack wondered what it was he had said wrong. In the next instant, though, it was gone, and Jack huffed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want a fight, not tonight, not with Matty. 

 

“Boiled cabbage it is then, since you don’t have an opinion,” Jack announced cheerfully. At the very least, it coaxed a smile out of Matt, so Jack counted it as a win. 

 

-

 

That Sunday, they loitered after Mass. The people filtered out of the pews, the nuns came around snuffing out the candles, and Jack carefully avoided looking any closer at them lest he see a face he might recognize. Still Jack stayed seated, with Matt beside him, waiting for everyone to leave. 

 

If anyone asked, Jack would say it was to make things easier for Matt. Crowds were harder to navigate when you were blind. 

 

Truthfully, though, Jack was waiting for a sign. A message. Anything. He wasn’t sure what exactly to expect, what a sign from God would look like, but he needed  _ something _ , and he wasn’t leaving this church without it. 

 

Matt was starting to fidget when Father Lantom finally approached their pew. He addressed Matty first. 

 

“It’s Matthew, right?” Lantom said, extending his hand. Jack scowled; Lantom knew damn well who Matt was, whose son he was. Matt nodded, but made no move to shake the proffered hand, so the priest reached out and lifted Matt’s hand out of his lap. “You’ve got a firm grip, that’s a good sign,” he said. “I’m Father Lantom.”

 

“I know,” Matt answered, and Jesus, only his kid would have the balls to sass a priest. 

 

Father Lantom laughed. “I guess you do. I’ve seen you in Mass before. Do you mind if I have a word with your dad?” Matt shrugged. “Thanks. One of the sisters can take you into the rectory while we talk.” He motioned a nun over, and Jack jerked his head up to make sure it wasn’t - but no, it was a much older woman that offered her arm to Matthew. Matty ignored the arm and grabbed his cane instead, and Jack felt a surge of pride for his boy. 

 

“Jack,” Father Lantom started, and then paused to settle himself into the pew. “Jack,” he began again, “I cannot begin to say how sorry we all are here at the church -”

 

“That so?” Jack’s voice was tight and sharp and almost against his will his hands on his knees clenched into fists. He let out a breath and one by one uncurled his fingers. “Sorry, Father,” he mumbled. 

 

“It’s fine,” Lantom replied easily. “I’m sure you’re under a lot of stress. I just wanted to let you know if there’s anything the church can do, anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

 

Jack fought down a snort. The thought of the church giving him anything was unthinkable. In Jack’s experience, the church only ever took away. 

 

“Thank you, Father,” he managed. “But I don't even know what  _ I  _ can do.” Lantom nodded and made to leave. As he passed Jack his hand reached out to grasp Jack’s shoulder. 

 

“Should you ever want to talk, my door is always open. Perhaps I can offer some guidance.” He looked expectantly at Jack and waited one heartbeat. Nothing. “I’ll send Sister Dorothea back out with Matthew.”

 

-

 

Two nights later found him back at the church with bruised knuckles and a split lip. He knelt in the back row and prayed for anonymity, but the church was practically empty on a Tuesday, and Father Lantom found him quickly. God must not have heard. Then again, He never did. 

 

“Are you here to talk or listen?” the priest asked, hovering over Jack’s shoulder. 

 

“Don’t know yet.”

 

Jack wasn’t sure how Lantom found an invitation in that, but the priest sat down beside Jack and clasped his hands in front of him. 

 

“What’s going on, Jack?”

 

“What’s going on?” Jack repeated, incredulous. “My kid is blind, that’s what’s goin’ on!” Jack’s voice echoed off the high stone walls, and the more those words rung in Jack’s ears, the angrier he got. He gripped the back of the pew in front of him until his knuckles ached. 

 

“I’m aware,” Lantom answered, still annoyingly calm. “But that’s Matthew. What’s going on with you?”

 

Jack gaped at him. Did this man really not understand that it was the same thing? Matt and Jack weren’t two separate people. Matty was all the most vital parts of Jack’s heart and soul, ripped violently from Jack’s own body and stitched delicately into his son’s small frame. But then again, this was also the man who’d torn Jack’s family in two, so maybe he didn’t get it after all. 

 

“That is,” Father Lantom amended, “what in particular about your situation is bothering you tonight?”

 

Jack scrubbed a hand over his face, let the stubble scratch at his fingers. He’d have to shave when he got home. “Matty’s school sent home a list of new equipment he needs,” Jack muttered. “It ain’t exactly cheap.”

 

And Christ, wasn’t that ironic? Jack knew working with Roscoe was a bad idea to start with, but they’d been strapped for cash and he’d been desperate. God punished him for his sin by blinding his son, which only left him with more expenses that he couldn’t afford to pay. His only way to even begin to cover it was by throwing more fights, taking more bribes. How’d that plan work out for You, huh?

 

Lantom was talking, but Jack wasn’t listening. 

 

“You’re a Goddamned hypocrite, You know that?” Jack threw the words sharply at the ceiling. “You’re one son of a bitch.”

 

Beside him, Father Lantom was finally quiet. “This isn’t God’s fault, Jack.”

 

Jack rounded on him. “Yeah? Well then whose is it?” Father didn’t answer. “Who?” he yelled, and damn, he wanted to hit something. “Tell me, Father, whose fault is it? I wanna know so I can sock ‘em in the eye! Whose fault is it?”

 

Jack was flushed and panting, but Lantom was calm. “If the world is God’s tapestry,” he said evenly, “our curse is that we can only see the back side of it, with all its loose ends and tangled threads. If we could only glimpse the front -”

 

“Goddammit, Paul, Matty can’t see either side of your damn tapestry!”

 

Lantom stood and looked down at Jack with a hard glint in his eye. “If you came to pick a fight tonight, Jack, you won’t find it here,” he warned. 

 

Without another word, Jack shoved himself off the pew and strode out of the church.

 

-

 

Jack couldn’t punch God, he couldn’t battle Matt’s blindness, so he picked a fight elsewhere. He learned the name of the truck that crashed and he started making phone calls. He was angry and frustrated and he wanted to make the people responsible pay, but no matter how furiously he dialed the numbers, no lawyer wanted to take on Rand Enterprises. Least of all the lawyers that Jack could actually afford. 

 

It was Father Lantom that finally found an attorney willing to help them - pro bono, no less - and Jack forced himself to swallow his pride for Matty’s sake. 

 

He intended to keep himself together, stay strong for his boy, but he felt himself crumbling as soon as he and Matty arrived at the lawyer’s office. The guy was tired, but kind, and Matt liked him straight away, which was a small miracle in and of itself. But the whole process made Jack sick to his stomach. 

 

He finally admitted defeat and ducked into the hallway while the lawyer - Mr Thomas Ives, Esquire - was interviewing Matt about what happened the day of the accident. 

 

He was Matt’s dad. He was supposed to protect him. But now he couldn’t even fight for his son, he had to get someone else to do it on his behalf. Jack could feel the weight of his failure creeping in at the edges of his mind, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. 

 

He’d never wanted to punch something more than he did in that moment. 

 

-

 

That feeling - of failure, helplessness, shame - became a constant companion over the next few months. Every moment felt like the angriest he’d ever been, and there was no respite. There were no rounds. There was no ref to call a timeout. The fight just went on and on, and for the first time in his life, Jack worried about what would happen when he couldn’t take a hit anymore. 

 

He watched Matt recount in excruciating detail the accident that had blinded him - first for their lawyer, then for Rand’s lawyers. He watched the blank faces of the corporate sharks as they jotted notes down on their damn yellow legal pads. 

 

He heard himself explaining again and again what he knew of the accident, what he remembered from the doctors, what he believed Matt would need in order to move forward in his life with his new disability.

 

He felt the sharks’ teeth across the courtroom, and he felt their smugness when they asked him why he hadn’t been there when the accident occured, felt something in himself snap when they accused him of being a bad father. 

 

The devil in him used to be manageable, used to belong in the ring and the ring only, but now he felt it raging in his chest, begging to be set loose. He prayed to God for guidance, but Jack felt as lost as ever. 

 

Mr Ives did his best, but their case never even made it to trial. It got thrown out on a technicality, something about the prosecution’s negligence at the scene. No one said it in so many words, but Jack knew they meant him. They were saying it was his fault, and though he couldn’t quite find it in him to argue with that logic, that didn’t mean his son should have to suffer for it. 

 

The devil inside his chest howled, but Jack clenched his jaw and led Matty away from the lawyer’s office. 

 

-

 

Sweeney approached him for the first time since the accident, and all Jack could see was Matty lying in his hospital bed, crying that he couldn’t see. He had debts stacking up against him, but he remembered the consequences of God’s wrath. He wasn’t risking it again. 

 

He told Sweeney no. 

 

At least, he tried to. Sweeney was never exactly subtle with his threats, and Jack couldn’t see a way out of this. Plus Sweeney had a point - Jack could use the cash. 

 

His professional record was already shit anyway, what was one more loss?

 

Jack was suddenly glad he didn’t have to look Matty in the eye anymore, and Jesus, what kind of a father did that make him?

 

-

 

Jack watched Matt running his hands reverently over the new robe, tracing his old man’s name on the back and smiling. Christ, but Jack’d do anything for this kid. He could lose a hundred fights - a thousand - it would all be worth it as long as he could come home to his boy. 

 

But then Matt raised his head and asked, so earnestly, “We always get back up again, right, Dad?” Jesus, what would this kid say if he knew what his dad was up to? Matty was all he had, his one spot of grace in the world. He couldn’t lose him, and he couldn’t let him down. 

 

It was like a mantra running through his head, a metronome to match his beating heart.  _ We always get back up again, right, Dad? _ He couldn’t shake it. It haunted him in bed that night. It stared him down the next morning. It followed him all the way to the ring.

 

He passed the church on his way to Fogwell’s, and he thought about stepping in. Asking God one last time for an out. Letting himself see Maggie again. The shame was thick in his throat, though, and he couldn’t make his feet take the well-worn path up to the doors, so he just kept going. Past the church, past Matty’s school, past the corner where the truck had flipped months ago. 

 

When he got to the gym, he called Ed to place his bets, and he started to warm up. It wasn’t too late to back out, not yet, and Jack came close to backing out every other heartbeat. Even by the time he’d stepped into the ring, he wasn’t sure he could do it. But the crowd was chanting his name -  _ Murdock! Murdock! _ \- and he remembered that it wasn’t just his name anymore. It was a name he shared with his son, and he wanted their name to be something Matty could be proud of.  _ He  _ wanted to be something Matty could be proud of. 

 

And damn it. He wanted to stop losing. 

 

The devil roared, Jack threw his arms up for the fight, and he let hell break loose. He was burning, throwing punch after punch, using the beast inside him to carry out God’s work. Creel didn’t stand a chance, not once Jack let the devil out.

 

Creel went down, the bell clanged, and Jack had won. Against all odds, he had won. 

 

He didn’t have long, he knew that. He crashed into the locker room, desperately ripping his gear off. Behind him, he could still hear the crowd yelling his name, and he gave himself one moment to imagine that Matt could hear it too, that Matt’s voice was out there in the crowd, and as everyone else chanted “Murdock! Murdock!” Matt’s quiet voice chanted something else.  _ Dad. Dad. _

 

Oh, Jesus, Matty. He had to get home. Forget the gear, forget the glory. He had to get to Matt. 

 

Roscoe was waiting for him in the alley with a gun. Jack would have liked to say he was dignified in the face of death. But the truth was he begged. The truth was Roscoe laughed. The truth was Jack cried because he’d won the fight against Creel that night, but he’d also fought something much worse and lost. 

 

The truth was, even as he was staring his death in the face, Jack couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He didn’t want to leave Matt, but he wanted Matty to be a better man than he was. He wanted Matty to have a better life. Jack thought about all the fights he’d lost. He thought about the fight he’d just won. He thought about Matty, and he hoped his son would never have to fight, but he wasn’t that naive. He wanted his son to fight for the right things, and he wanted his son to win.  

 

_ We’re Murdocks _ , Matt had said.  _ We get hit a lot. But we always get back up _ . 

 

Jack hit the ground, and he stayed down. 

**Author's Note:**

> did I write this instead of studying for my finals? yes, but I have so many feelings about Jack Murdock, and I wouldn't have been able to focus until I got them out.


End file.
